Tuesday, February 13, 2007

The Libby Trial

So there they were – Judith Miller and Scooter Libby, and Robert Novak and Richard Armitage and Bob Woodward and Karl Rove and Tim Russert and all the other self-important inside-the-beltway people, discussing Joseph Wilson, his op-ed piece and Valerie Plame, Joseph Wilson’s CIA employee wife.

Do you suppose it ever crossed their minds that they were playing fast and loose with the United States of America? Did they think for a moment that maybe they weren’t entitled to do so? Did they stop to think that Wilson, Plame, and their children – or the then-mostly-living 3000-plus Americans who died in Iraq – or the hundreds of thousands of dead Iraqis – were real people with real lives, not vague abstractions?

No. They shilled, flacked and worried the Iraq war into existence, (or in Woodward’s case, withheld critical information) in order to advance their own self interest. The Plame-Wilson story was nothing more than a malignant little shuttlecock in a bizarre game of Tim Burton-esque badminton out on the lawn.

Such silly, shallow and vane little people. They are courtiers six ranks back in the throng at King George’s court.

And there they were, fucking America Iraq and the Wilsons over, toying with the lives of others – feeling entitled – even obligated to do so. They are our high school cool kids gone to seed. Vainglorious preening people. Millionaires who’ve allowed – and continue to allow – themselves to be played for fools. Pompous asses who ignored the stink of the Clinton impeachment, stood by for the coup that was Bush vs Gore, allowed – and continue to allow – the conflation of 9/11 and Iraq and parroted the false alarms about WMD’s.

Our national politics are their office politics, nothing more – and certainly nothing personal. God, it’s galling.

Comedian Louie Anderson used to have a bit where he said that he wished somebody would come up with an “asshole bullet” that only killed you for five minutes.

You’d wake up, face down on the sidewalk and realize somebody had killed you for five minutes and you’d sit up and say, “Damn. I must have been a real asshole.”

Where are the asshole bullets when we really need them?


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